He said he owed five million to loan sharks. Said if he didn't pay up, they'd break his legs.

I worked my day job, then stayed up all night drafting plans for him, selling them one by one.

The day I coughed blood, he showed up with ginseng soup. Mouth full of how much he ached for me—phone still open to another woman, the two of them picking a honeymoon destination.

Later I collapsed outside the emergency room, and a message from him lit up my screen：

“If you don't come back and sign the divorce papers, I'll let her have the baby in the apartment you paid for.”

I gripped the phone as they wheeled me through the doors into emergency resus.

The nurse said：“Stop looking. Your hands are shaking.”

……

When Eustace Delgado dropped to his knees in front of me, it was already past one in the morning.

I'd just gotten home from overtime. Hadn't even finished changing my shoes before he threw himself forward, kneecaps cracking against the tile.

“Gayle, please. I've never begged anyone in my life. I'm begging you.”

I froze, then crouched down to help him up.

He wouldn't move. His fingers locked around my wrist, nails digging into skin.

“Five million. Loan sharks. Due next Wednesday. If I can't pay, they'll break my legs first, then show up at the company, then……”

His voice broke.

“Then I'll have nothing left.”

I'd known Eustace for six years. Married for two.

He was the kind of man who kept his back straight in front of anyone. Never softened his words. Never bowed his head.

Now he was on his knees in front of me, shaking all over, like a cat pinned by the throat.

“How did you end up owing that much?”

“Cash flow at the company dried up. I took out a bridge loan, but the project fell through, and the interest kept compounding……”

He buried his face against my knees. “I was afraid to tell you. Afraid you'd worry. But I've run out of options.”

My mind was a wreck.

Five million. Everything we had saved together came to less than four hundred thousand. The apartment still had a mortgage. Even selling it wouldn't be enough.

“I'll figure something out.”

I heard my own voice, dry as sandpaper.

Eustace lifted his head. His eyes were rimmed red.

“Really?”

“Really. Get up first.”

His legs buckled when he stood, and he nearly went down again.

I caught him and felt the trembling running through his entire body.

It wasn't fake.

At least in that moment, I didn't think it was fake.

That night Eustace didn't come to bed. He tossed and turned on the living room sofa.

I lay in the dark, listening to him on the phone outside, his voice pressed low, drifting in broken fragments through the wall.

“Just a few more days……my wife's working on it……we're not running……”

I pressed my face into the pillow.

What could I even do?

I drew buildings for a living. A little over twenty thousand a month. Even without eating or drinking, that was twenty years.

The only option was freelance work on the side.

The next day, I started picking up outsourced architectural design jobs online.

Houses, offices, small civic projects—whatever came in, I took it.

Eight hundred per rendering. Twenty thousand for a full set of construction drawings.

Clients pushed for tight deadlines, so the only way through was pulling all-nighters.

The first night, I worked until three a.m.

The second night, four a.m.

The third night, I fell asleep at my desk. When I woke up it was already light out, drool all over my keyboard, my neck so stiff I couldn't turn it.

Eustace brought in a cup of honey water and set it beside my hand.

“Gayle, don't push yourself so hard. Your health matters more.”

He stood behind me, rested his hand on my shoulder, and gave it a gentle squeeze.

I caught a scent on him. Not our body wash. Something sweet and cloying, like perfume.

I didn't remember anything in our apartment smelling like that.

“Did you switch body wash?”

His hand paused.

“No, nothing like that. Probably picked it up from someone at the office.”

I didn't think much of it.

The client was pushing harder and harder for drafts. A developer wanted a full master plan for a villa district, fifteen-day turnaround, three hundred thousand.

I took it.

Fifteen days. Three hundred thousand.

That meant at least sixteen hours a day at my desk.

I used a week of annual leave and locked myself in the study.

Eustace brought meals every day, left them outside the door, knocked twice, and walked away.

Sometimes I heard him on the phone in the hallway, voice low, too soft to make out the words, but the tone was easy. Smiling.

The same kind of smile he'd had when I first knew him.

Light. Happy. Unburdened.

He hadn't smiled like that in front of me in a long time.

Day seven.

Past midnight.

I stared at the dense web of lines on the screen, eyes so dry they felt scraped raw with sandpaper.

Then my throat went hot and metallic all at once.

I clamped a hand over my mouth and coughed.

My palm came away red.

Blood.

I stared at it for a few seconds, blank.

The first thought in my head wasn't “What's wrong with me” but “Eight days left. Can't fall behind.”

I pulled a tissue, wiped my hand clean, and kept drawing.

Two more hours. The blood came again.

More this time. It splattered across the keyboard and seeped into the gaps between the keys.

I leaned back in the chair and closed my eyes for a while.

My heart was hammering, so fast it felt like it would punch straight through my throat.

I picked up my phone, meaning to message Eustace.

In the chat window, a text from him an hour ago：“Hey, I'll be back late tonight. Something came up at the office.”

I didn't think about it. Typed two words：“Okay.” Went back to drawing.

The next morning I collapsed on the bathroom floor.

By the time Eustace came home I was already conscious, crouched on the tiles scrubbing at the bloodstains.

He rushed over and caught my arm, his face white as paper.

“What happened to you?”

“It's nothing. Just my gums bleeding—I've been run down.”

He didn't believe me. But he didn't ask again.

“I brought you congee. Eat, then rest for a bit. Stop drawing.”

It was century egg and lean pork congee. I got two spoonfuls down before my stomach heaved and all of it came back up.

Eustace watched me retch, one hand rubbing slow circles on my back.

I heard his phone ring. He glanced at the screen and silenced it.

It rang again. He silenced it again.

The third time, he picked up and stepped out onto the balcony, voice pressed low.

“Didn't I say I'm at home……Yeah, I'll come later……Don't start.”

I'll come later.

Where?

To see who?

I didn't ask.

Because I was afraid to.

Afraid to hear the answer.

Afraid the worst answer was the real one.

Day fifteen.

I sent the final version of the plan to the client.

When I lifted my hand off the mouse, my whole arm was numb.

I stared at the screen and waited for a reply.

Five minutes. Ten. Twenty.

A message came through：“Plan received. Review meeting tomorrow.”

Tomorrow.

If it passed review, the three hundred thousand was mine.

Add the hundred-odd thousand I'd saved, sell the little apartment my mother left me, scrape everything together, and maybe it would be enough.

I called my mother.

“Mom, I want to sell the old apartment.”

“Sell the apartment? What's happened?”

“Nothing's happened. I just……want to trade up to something bigger.”

My mother was quiet for a long time.

“Gayle, don't lie to your mother. You don't sound right.”

“Just a cold.”

“……All right. I'll go list it with the agency tomorrow.”

I hung up the phone. The tears came before I could stop them.

That old house—my parents had scraped together every penny to buy it. After my father died, my mother could never bring herself to let it go.

She said it was the last thing she still shared with him.

I sold it.

For Eustace.

Had I lost my mind?

Maybe.

But I loved him.

The day I married him, I made a vow: for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, I would never leave.

He needed me now. How could I not help?

I wiped my eyes and went back to the next proposal.

The next day, the client called—the proposal had been approved.

Three hundred thousand wired to my account.

I stared at the bank notification, my heartbeat slowing from a hammering rush until it settled into something quiet.

Still not nearly enough.

I sent the listing for the old house to the real-estate agent.

Then I texted Eustace：“The house sold. I put together eight hundred thousand from that, plus three hundred thousand from this job. Use it to pay off the debt first.”

He replied instantly：“Gayle, thank you. I'll remember what you've done for me for the rest of my life.”

Remember what I'd done for him for the rest of his life.

Gratitude was never what I wanted.

I just wanted him to be okay.

That evening Eustace came home early, carrying a bouquet.

Not roses. Lilies. My favorite.

He put them in a vase, then walked over and wrapped his arms around me from behind.

“Gayle, I want to show you something.”

He pulled out a small box and opened it. Inside was a necklace.

“That brand you said you liked—I could never afford it before, but now……I finally bit the bullet.”

I lowered my head and let him fasten it around my neck.

The chain settled against my collarbone, cool against my skin.

“Does it look good?” he asked.

“It's beautiful.”

“You're more beautiful than the necklace.”

Eustace kissed my earlobe.

For one moment I believed every bit of it had been worth it.

I was so wrong.

The necklace was fake.

I found out later that the one he bought for that woman was a limited-edition piece set with real diamonds. Mine was a knockoff.

Ninety-nine yuan. Free shipping.

But the necklace wasn't the only thing he lied about.

That night, Eustace went to shower and left his phone on the nightstand.

The screen lit up.

A message popped up from a contact saved as “Livvy”.

“That necklace today was so pretty. Thank you.”

My finger hovered above the screen.

I didn't tap it.

I set the phone back exactly where it had been, same angle, same position.

Not out of respect for his privacy.

Out of fear.

I was afraid that if I opened it, I'd have proof of everything I'd been trying not to see.

I wasn't ready.

I would never be ready.

Another week passed.

I added it all up. Between everything, I had wired Eustace close to two million.

Savings, project fees, the money from the old house—every source I had, scraped clean. And thirty thousand my mother had slipped to me in secret.

The money she had set aside penny by penny over years, I handed straight to Eustace.

I didn't know how I'd let myself go this far.

Probably because when I love someone, I don't keep count.

Day ten.

I took on another project, a mixed-use commercial complex, with a deadline of just twenty days.

The client pushed hard. I barely closed my eyes.

On the thirteenth day, I coughed up blood for the third time.

This time I didn't wipe it away.

I went to the hospital.

The doctor studied my CT scans, frowning.

“Have you been pulling all-nighters regularly?”

“Yes.”

“Severe anemia on top of pneumonia, and your heart is already showing early signs of failure. You need to be admitted right now. You keep this up, you're going to die.”